Fireside Tales
by KnightFury
Summary: My answer to the December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2018, hosted by Hades. This year, I am collaborating with my boys, Paul and David. Chapter 30's prompt supplied by zanganito and 31's prompt courtesy of cjnwriter.
1. Mrs Hudson Gets a Black Eye

**1\. From Stutley Constable: Mrs Hudson gets a black eye.**

It is unusual for Mr. Holmes to suffer with nightmares, but he has not been himself since his return from goodness knows where. I wonder (and dread to think) what he has seen these last three years.

His cries are going on rather longer than Doctor Watson's would have. Oh...! Perhaps Mr. Holmes would always go to him and calm him down. Perhaps I should go to Mr. Holmes.

Poor dear! His coverlets are strewn all over the floor, even though he is quite still now. His cries have turned to quiet sobs and he is trembling. I have never seen him like this!

"Mr. Holmes...?" I lean over him and rest a hand upon his shoulder. What would Doctor Watson do, if he were here?

He jumps slightly, but then the sobbing and trembling stops. That's good!

Why am I lying on the floor? Ouch! My eye! I feel as if I have been struck!

"Mrs. Hudson!" Mr. Holmes is leaning over me, looking dreadfully upset. "A thousand apologies, my dear lady! I knew not what I was doing. Are you hurt?"

I permit him to help me to sit up and examine me in much the way that Doctor Watson would have. He would appear to have been well taught! I wonder if the good doctor knows just how much his friend has learnt from him.

"I shall get you a cold compress for your poor eye," he announces, before galloping downstairs.

Then he is back and tending to me with all the tenderness and concern of a devoted son. I forget, sometimes, just how kind and gentle this man can be.

"Mrs. Hudson, I truly am very sorry. I have lashed out at Watson in such a state, before now and that is unforgivable enough..."

"Don't be silly, Mr. Holmes. You knew not what you were doing."

He nods, his eyes cast downwards. "I apologise never-the-less."

"Yes, well, no harm done. I think I should like some warm milk, before I go back to bed. Would you care to join me?"

The way his face lights up makes my heart weep for him! You would think I had bestowed a kindness upon him that he had never known before! Bless me! What did he go through, during his travels?


	2. A Painful Lesson

**2\. cjnwriter: Tell us more about one of those cases we learn the name of but little (or nothing) else.**

The arrest of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, is a story I shall likely never wish to share with the public. There are things which transpired which I would rather not reflect upon - one being the untimely demise of a promising young constable.

My case, my fault - especially seeing as it was my responsibility to gauge the likely danger. That I knew Wilson to be an uncommon criminal is undeniable, but he was quite old and I did not anticipate any resistance once the game was up.

I am telling my story from the wrong end! I should endeavour to start from the beginning.

Wilson trained canaries and sold them from his seedy (excuse the pun) little ground floor flat in the East End, as well as taking them to the local market once a week. The canaries were undoubtedly very beautiful, with pretty voices and an ability to do tricks - usually, this involved solving some sort of puzzle for extra seed. Impressive as the birds were, many people from all walks of life would purchase them and many a wealthy person in want of an exotic pet would seek him out.

It took three burglaries in as many weeks for me to notice a connection of any kind. All three had clearly been conducted by an expert, that much was obvious. There were never any traces of entry - indeed, the door by which he came was obvious because it was left unlocked, as opposed to forced, meaning that the homeowner was left wondering whether he himself were in fact at fault - and the burglar was never seen nor heard. No traces were left. I must confess that I was as baffled as the official force, at first.

The only thing which the victims had in common, aside from being fairly well-off, was the singing canaries kept in their rooms. Each cage was of a different type, but the canaries all came from the same man. Each performed amusing tricks and I found myself wondering whether they were capable of performing other, more sinister tricks.

I am ashamed to say that I sent one of my Irregulars his way, to offer assistance for a meagre wage. The boy was accepted and all that I could do was to wait. Had I believed Wilson to be dangerous, I should never have sent the boy and I shall never be so quick to do so again.

Time dragged on and the burglaries continued. There were no further leads but I was given no reason to believe myself to be on the wrong track either.

Wiggins approached me almost a month after I had posted my spy at Wilson's. The boy had been taken into the old man's confidence and was now assisting in training the canaries to leave their cages and drop a door key through the letterbox of the house.

"Well, now we know how he can come and go without signs of force," said I. "But this also raises other questions... How comes a canary to act at the correct time?"

"Jerry told me Wilson whistles a peculiar tune," Wiggins said. "The birds ignore it when Jerry's there, but they open their cages when they're alone and the room's dark."

"Jerry has made an excellent report," said I. " See that he comes to Baker Street tomorrow for his wages. And here, Wiggins, is payment for your report."

Watson encouraged him to also take two oranges from the fruit dish and what was left of the cheese from lunch. Bless him! The doctor is a good man.

I gathered up Lestrade and some of his men, that very afternoon, and away we went to talk with Wilson. Jerry let us in, while his employer insisted with vehemence that he did not wish to be disturbed. Upon entering, we discovered a canary out of its cage but it appeared to be behaving naturally. Unfortunately, I was never able to see the birds at work as an accomplice.

Lestrade was quick to find some items described by their owners, however, and that was all that was required to arrest him. It appeared that he had taken to secreting his items in a hidden compartment in his settee but had left a part of a watch chain visible.

It was Watson, standing guard over the criminal, who saw the defeated Wilson begin to raise a pistol and shouted a warning, but it was pandemonium in the room. The canaries had all left their cages by now and had all taken to flying about and diving at us. Many of us had been in the process of inspecting the stolen goods which had been discovered and looking for further hiding places.

By the time I had turned, a shot had been fired. The doctor had tried to take the weapon from the hand of Wilson and it had gone off in the struggle. I hastened to the doctor's side, fearing that he might have been injured. It was then that there was a dull thud from behind me.

I cannot say why the old man decided to draw the weapon. Could he have meant to kill himself? Attacking so many of us would have been pointless, for a revolver does not even supply sufficient bullets! He never did answer that question, however, save with a shrug, so perhaps he simply acted without thought. It cost a young man his life and of that I shall always be painfully aware.

In future, I must be the more watchful. Criminals are becoming rather the more violent and unpredictable when cornered.


	3. St Peter

**From Winter Winks 221: St. Peter's companion**

I would never have considered myself to be saintly. My manner can be too impatient and besides that I have too many bad habits. I do not frequent church as much as I should, either, and there are other problems as well.

Why, then, am I having strange dreams in which angels and saints - particularly St Peter - visit me? Is it guilt? I fail to see how it could be that, for I do not recall him berating me nor telling me that I should change my ways.

Yet, I know with certainty that, when the time comes, St Peter will most assuredly not call my name. That I have already accepted; I have not the time to fret about my future - I live in the here and now! Watson will be called - I am certain of that. Could he be directing St Peter to me, in an attempt to save my soul? Should I speak to him of these curious dreams?

Is Doctor Watson St Peter's companion?


	4. New Recruit

**From mrspencil: a new Irregular joins the gang**

Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly and cast a pleading look in my direction.

"I am not at all sure that your father would approve, you know," said he. "Besides, you would really not look the part."

Young Tim Lestrade's bottom lip quivered. "But I'm good at noticing things! I'm quick, too - you played football with me on me birthday, last year! You know I'm quick!"

Holmes nodded solemnly. "You are also as tenacious as your father, clearly. That is also a point for you. But I cannot engage you without at least talking with your mother, Tim. I am sorry, but as you have parents that will undoubtedly worry, should you be late home from school..."

I stared at my friend incredulously. "But you just said that he would stand out!" I objected.

"Watson, I am sure that I could find him a disguise or two, should his parents agree. And Wiggins would certainly look after him. He is a bright lad; I could also give him some pointers on acting and blending in. No, no, that is of no concern..."

Tim grinned. "You mean you'll think about it?"

He took up his hat and cane. "I have already thought about it. Come along, Tim. We should get you home and then I think your mother and I should have a little chat. What do you say?"

I remained behind, not wanting to intrude. I doubted very much that Holmes would be able to persuade Mrs. Lestrade and I took no pleasure in acting as observer under such circumstances. Besides that, my old wound was aching mercilessly with the onset of winter.

Holmes returned in high spirits, much to my surprise. "We have a new Irregular," he informed me jubilantly. "He is due to come here for instruction on Saturday. I must send word to Wiggins - and locate some old boys' clothes. And we shall have to somehow conceal his neatly cut hair..."

And with that, he was gone once more. I very much doubt that Tim Lestrade's own mother will recognise him, come Saturday.


	5. Purple Spots

**From sirensbane: Purple spots.**

 **This story was written with a great deal of help from my boys. The idea of Holmes seeing things was David's. I thank both for assistance rendered.**

A crash sounded from downstairs. What the hour was, I knew not, but I was awake in an instant and taking the stairs at a run, despite the old reminders of the Afghan campaign.

The downstairs rooms were in darkness, but I could make out the faint sounds of distress, coming from Holmes' bedroom. I pushed open the door, which was (thank goodness) not locked and turned up the gas to find my friend stretched upon the floor.

"Sorry to wake you," he whispered.

His breaths were laboured and I could see that he was flushed with fever.

"I am glad that you did wake me, old man," said I. "You are unwell."

He waved away the statement. "I am all right, now. Thought I was going to be sick, but the feeling has passed."

That explained a thing or two, I thought. He had probably attempted to rise from his bed too hastily for a sick man and had fallen.

"Holmes, let me get you back into bed and then I shall examine you. Is there anything you would like?"

He requested drinking water, so I retrieved my carafe along with my bag from my bedroom.

"For how long have you been feeling unwell?" I asked of him, having diagnosed an untreated influenza that was by now trying its damnedest to develop into a full pneumonia.

Holmes waved a hand impatiently. "I have had no time for convalescence, so I put it off until the case was completed."

I felt my temper rise at the words. To my experience, one cannot put off an illness; one can only ignore it. "And for how long, exactly, have you been putting it off?"

"One, two... four. Four days."

How I kept myself from shouting at the man or shaking him by the collar of his night gown I cannot say, but I somehow kept my temper, telling myself that we would talk about it when he had sufficiently recovered. He was clearly not well enough for a row at present.

"Watson..." he whispered with sudden urgency, as I started to rummage in my bag for medicine. "Could you do anything about them? I am not really very vain about my appearance..."

"Do something about what?" I asked, turning.

He showed me his bare arms, which were pale and shining with perspiration as the gas light struck them.

"These big, purple spots!" Holmes all but wailed. "They must be all over me! What are they?"

I examined his arms thoroughly, but the only marks were old puncture marks, self-inflicted before he took this most recent case.

"They shall vanish completely, in time," I assured him gently. "First, I think you need a cooling medicine..."

"Sorry to bother you, old fellow..."

I almost stopped in my tracks again, so stunned was I. "Holmes, you are not a bother. Stop apologising, please."

"But... you are angry..."

I was angry, yes. Angry indeed that he should allow himself to get into such a state whilst living with a doctor! But I was also angry with myself.

"I am upset that I failed to take notice," said I. "There must have been sufficient warning signs. I am also probably responsible for your illness - it is highly likely that I brought this home to you, for I have seen a score of influenza and pneumonia patients these past few weeks."

He touched my sleeve and through the fabric I could feel the heat of his palm.

"That is your job," said he. "For which I am grateful."

I smiled at him as I settled him back down and dosed him with the cooling medicine.

He is sleeping, now, with me watching over him. I have brought in a bucket, in case he decides that his digestion is upset after all, but I trust that he shall be improved by the cooling mixture and restful sleep.

I hope that he shall also wake to find those purple spots to be gone, for it is not like Holmes to imagine things.


	6. More Spots!

**From sirensbane: Write a crossover.**

The woman dissolved into sobbing and Holmes looked to me for assistance.

"Look here, Mrs. Ratcliffe, while I deeply sympathise..." again, he looked to me, gesturing with hands and arms as he searched for the appropriate words. "How am I to locate two runaway dogs and fifteen stolen puppies?"

She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. "My husband and I are convinced it has to do with a... an old... acquaintance of mine - Cruella DeVil. She wanted to buy all of the puppies and was very angry when we turned down her offer. But... but... she is not the sort, Mr. Holmes, to love anything... her idea of friendliness is... well... heartless."

He took her hand. "It is at least a start," said he. "I shall look into this woman."

"Scotland Yard are already investigating her, but they haven't found anything. They don't even know where she is."

Holmes stood with a snarl and began to pace swiftly. "If she has anything to do with this, she will have gone to ground. That makes it somewhat harder. I shall investigate, however - and I shall be quiet about it, dash it all! Why must the official force be so damned obvious?"

"Holmes!" I rebuked him. "There is no call for that."

Mrs. Ratcliffe had paid his bad language no heed, however; she was much too grateful to him for agreeing to take the case.

* * *

It took us two days to learn of the old, tumbled-down DeVil house, once a fine manor, but now crumbling with decay. It took us almost another full day to reach the place, situated in Suffolk.

As we approached from the rear of the property, Holmes pointed out the smoke coming from the rickety old chimney.

"It is not fit to live in and has been abandoned for years, according to the local agent," he reminded me. "Yet, someone is at home."

Once we had scaled the wall, he took little time to locate a hole in the building which was almost big enough for his skinny frame to squeeze through and set to enlarging it with his knife. He had almost finished when a car roared in at the front gate and up the drive.

Moments later, amid the sounds of puppies barking, a woman's voice began to shout and scream.

"The Law is onto us! An Inspector Hopkins has been asking questions. I want the job done tonight!"

"What? Look 'ere, Miss, we only agreed to nick a few pups an' 'ang onto 'em, like," a man answered. "We never agreed to 'urt 'em."

"That's roit," another man's voice seconded. "We never 'urts no-one. We just locks 'em up somewhere and pinches the silver."

"I believe I know those two," Holmes mused. "If I am correct, they have been warned that, when next they are caught, it shall be a hanging matter. I believe we can use these men, Watson."

"Listen to me, you idiots," the woman snarled. "If it is not done tonight, I shall report you to the police. I may want my fur coat, but I am not going to prison for it, do you understand? You do the job tonight or it is the hangman's noose for you. You have until dawn, so get on with it!"

I shivered and looked to Holmes, who looked as if he might be sick.

"When she is gone, slip around to the front," he hissed after a moment. "When the shouting starts, throw open the door and show them your revolver."

I think he meant for me to point it at them. I hope that he did, because that is precisely what I intended to do.

The door slammed, widening the hole at which Holmes had been working further still. He waved to me and disappeared as the car's engine roared into life once more.

The shouting started almost before I had reached the door and I hastily opened it. A short, fat man was clinging to a tall, thin man and shrieking something about their crimes finding them out. They were clearly too frightened to even think of putting up a fight, but I kept my pistol to hand all the same.

Holmes finally calmed them enough to make them listen to him.

"Right, I think that is quite enough," said he. "It appears that you have been caught red-handed, in possession of stolen goods."

"Did yer bring the peelers?" the fat man asked, his voice quivering.

Holmes laughed. "Does it look it?"

The tall man smirked. "We're one against two, 'Orace," said he, reaching for the leg of an old table.

I cleared my throat with a good deal more noise than was necessary. "Two against two - and an army revolver. Now, I think you should be very quiet and still, don't you?"

Holmes grinned at me and the one called Horace started to cry.

"Thank you, Watson. Now, gentlemen, my proposition is this: release the puppies into our care - all of them - and assist me in turning over Miss DeVil to the authorities. If you stand against her - and promise me to find a better form of employment - I shall see that you are not touched by the law. What do you say to that?"

* * *

 **It has always bothered the boys and I that the Disney film (the original, not three live action) never brought Cruella to justice. If only Holmes had been there, eh?**

 **My thanks to Paul and David for their hard work. I hope you have enjoyed this as much as we enjoyed penning it.**


	7. Let Me Write in Peace!

**From Domina Temporis: Holmes attempts to write a monograph, chaos ensues**

I had spent several days trying to write one of my tales, with constant interruptions from Holmes - explosions from the chemistry table, impromptu bursts of music/noise from the violin and all manner of chatter and requests.

When at last the wretched deadline was met, I suspected that my work would be all too full of errors to be printable. Had I believed Sherlock Holmes to be a petty man, I might have accused him of sabotage.

Just as my temper with him was subsiding, the infuriating detective decided that it was his turn to take up his pen. I might have let his recent behaviour pass - I am not myself known to behave in a petty manner - but he had the nerve to beg of me to be quiet.

Well, you can imagine. I did nothing quietly - the doors were slammed, the teacups were rattled, books were dropped and slammed shut... I even stamped about the room and ran up and down the stairs between my bedroom and the sitting room.

I must say that Holmes kept his patience very well - probably better than I did. However, that only angered me all the more. He had almost succeeded in making me miss my deadline, dash it all!

"Holmes?"

"What is it, Watson? I have asked you to be quiet."

"Yes, so you have, but I am thirsty. Should I ring for more tea?"

Holmes did not turn from his work, but he did pause. "I should think that you shall have it coming out of your ears, soon. If you are truly so very thirsty, Watson, I fear that you are likely catching cold."

I grumbled something about feeling perfectly well and stamped away to my chair.

I heard Holmes give an exasperated sigh as he resumed his work.

After some five or ten minutes, I decided to clear my throat as loudly as was possible. It was not the loudest noise that I had made, but my companion visibly jumped and dropped his pen.

"Damn and blast!" he cried, as he hastily dabbed at the page of his book with his handkerchief. "Dash it all, Watson! An entire day of writing ruined!"

With a snarl, he whirled to face me.

I cleared my throat again. "I am sorry, Holmes..."

"Yes, well, I suppose it was well deserved," he grumbled. "I know that I was frightfully disruptive, while you were writing. My apologies, Doctor. Perhaps I could make it up to you by taking you out to dinner, hum? And perhaps you might enjoy a concert?"

I confirmed that that would be a perfect way to spend an evening and so my friend set aside pen and paper and rose from his chair.

Why Holmes would jump at a cough, yet successfully ignore all other noise, I am not quite sure. That is likely a question for another occasion.


	8. Secret Wizard

**From Ennui Enigma: Holmes is secretly a wizard**

I am a deucedly secretive fellow, but I do have my reasons. Watson has been told that I came from a line of country squires, which is not entirely false. He also knows me to have art in my blood, which is also not untrue.

My friend the doctor knows of my mother's side of the family - the ordinary; the Muggles. He knows nothing of my father's line. He knows not why Mycroft opened the Diogenes Club or whom the clientele are.

Watson would never believe me if I were to tell him that the reason for my distaste in sports is because none (aside from, perhaps, horse racing) have the same dash as Quidditch. Cricket is dull and time-consuming, football is brainless... nothing compares to flying on a broom! I wish I could show him, but the fellow would undoubtedly want to write of all the wonders, should I share them with him, which would be very dangerous for us all.

I shall - I must - content myself as I always have, by keeping my friends safe with (entirely secret) magic. I can heal and comfort with my violin, too, which also has its uses. Perhaps it is better to be of use than to share one's secrets, anyhow.


	9. Laundry Day

**From Stutley Constable: Laundry day!**

I had spent two long days and nights at the bedside of a patient, leaving for Baker Street only when the crisis had at last passed and he was out of danger.

Too spent to walk, I hailed a cab and did my best not to fall asleep as I was driven homeward. All the same, the driver was forced to shake me into wakefulness upon arrival.

"It's a'right, Doctor; I can see you've been 'ard at it. Long night?"

"Two days," said I, covering a yawn.

"Well, let's 'ope it stays quiet fer a few days, eh? Never mind me fayre! You brought me little girl back from the brink, last year, an' never asked fer so much as a brass farthing! This one's on me an' you just ask fer ol' Joe Black, if yer needs a ride somewhere fer a reduced fayre - a'right?"

I thanked him and stumbled inside, thinking only of bed. As I entered the hall, I almost tripped over a garland fashioned from silk ribbons and pieces of evergreen plants.

"Doctor Watson! Are you all right?" Mrs. Hudson enquired anxiously.

I told her of my long vigil and she clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Go on up to bed, sir. If you would, could you leave your clothes for washing out on the landing, so you are not disturbed?"

I agreed to do so, though I felt rather like simply removing my outer clothing and shoes before crawling into bed, if truth be told.

As I reached the first landing, I found Holmes placing his laundry basket outside of his bedroom door, along with the summer curtains from the sitting room.

"Mrs. Hudson wishes to give the upstairs a 'proper going over', before Christmas arrives," said he with a shrug. He then noticed my expression and shook himself. "I say, Watson, you look completely done up! Can I do anything, my dear fellow?"

I gave a sudden yawn which so caught me off guard that I could neither stifle nor cover it.

"Poor Watson!" said he, with feeling. "Come along, then."

With that he escorted me up the stairs to my room and set about readying me for bed, as I have sometimes been known to do for him, following a long case. Holmes saw me into bed and must have returned with clean handkerchiefs and a carafe of drinking water, for they were waiting at my bedside when I finally awoke.

For some reason, I immediately recalled Mrs. Hudson's request that I move any dirty washing to the landing and that I had neglected to do it. Hastily, I rose, to discover that Holmes had both lit a fire in my hearth and moved my entire wash basket from the room.

With a sigh, I settled once more in my bed, having taken a small amount of water for my parched throat. Clearly, Holmes meant to see that I would not succumb to sickness myself, brought on by my fatigue, and I was grateful to receive such consideration (however ridiculous it might have been).

I made a note to thank him, later.

Then I returned to my slumber.

* * *

Note: Thank you KIT-10 (not K-9) for your reviews - I would have responded properly by PM, but you review as a guest. I wanted you to know that I have enjoyed reading the reviews to the boys, who are still very much assisting me, this year and like to hear what those reading make of our efforts.


	10. A Tree for Scotland Yard

**From Madam'zelleG: Lestrade and Watson have a grim assignment: putting up the Yard's Christmas tree**

 **My dear Madam'zelleG, I have just realised that I misread or at least failed to process your prompt. I apologise! However, this does give the opportunity to use David's idea...**

"You're doing a fine job, Doctor," Gregory says, ignoring Lestrade completely. "But I think the tree might be listing a bit to the left."

"Well, come 'n' give us a hand then!" the shorter man grumbles from beneath the tree.

Gregory merely walks away without another word, leaving me to rectify the angle of the tree myself, while Lestrade secures it in its stand.

"Looks great!" Inspector Hopkins says, as he hurries by a little later. "Are you going to hang any bells on it? I like the merry sound of sleigh bells."

"You'll have to go and buy some, then," Lestrade says, but Hopkins is already out of earshot.

"Haven't you got any tinsel?" Bradstreet asks of us, after stopping for a moment to watch us work. We are now decorating with ribbons and coloured glass balls. "That old ribbon is a bit dog-eared."

"Don't you think we'd use it, if we had it?" Lestrade snaps. "Anyway, it'll look all right, once we've finished."

We are just about to add candles when Holmes strides in. He stands for some moments and then decides to poke a few sprigs of holly and a poinsettia flower into the tree from a nearby arrangement.

"Oi!" Lestrade removes them again and hands them back. "You said you were too busy to help, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, so don't you start interfering now! Put these back where they came from - I don't want them dying on the tree, thank you."

Holmes shrugs his shoulders but does as instructed without a word of argument.

"What about some gold candles?" he asks, as I am reaching for the box of white candles, purchased with money from the Yard's petty cash.

"We couldn't afford fancy candles," Lestrade snaps at him, losing the remainder of his patience. "What do you think this is? Buckingham Palace?"

Holmes shrugs a second time. "Well, if you do not want them, perhaps Mrs. Watson would like them."

This said, he hands me a box of expensive candles with a small smile.

Lestrade gasps at him. "Is that what you were up to, this morning?"

My companion chuckles. "I thought I might surprise you. Is there anything else that you might need?"

The inspector grins at him. "Well, someone did mention sleigh bells..."

"I am not traipsing through London, carrying noise makers," Holmes informs him sharply. "Here, Watson, you can purchase them. This should be sufficient."

Lestrade laughs merrily. "I was only joking, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for the candles. Would you like to help us with them?"

We work together to finish decorating the tree and then share some mince pies and mulled wine, which Mrs. Lestrade has kindly packed her husband off with, along with cinnamon biscuits, supplied by my wife. I wonder if that is the reason for Holmes to conveniently appear to help, for he is not usually inclined to trim a tree.

* * *

 **Original response:**

December is always a busy month - for me, it is a month in the dreaded influenza season and the ice and snow also provide ample sprains and fractures. For Holmes and Scotland Yard, it is a month of crime; most commonly, a month of robberies and thefts. As Holmes has told me more than once, even the honest (poor) man is tempted to turn to crime at this time of year, if only to provide his loved ones with a little extra food and perhaps a small gift.

December 1896 was a particularly trying one for our friends at the yard, though Holmes was mostly spared - petty thefts rarely involved him. However, when I happened to pass Lestrade on the street, he looked so bone weary that I feared he might be nearing a point of collapse.

"He looked dreadful," I informed Holmes over dinner. "I should like to help in some way - even if we can only share a little Christmas cheer."

My companion frowned at me. "If our friends at the yard are wearing themselves out, what good will 'Christmas cheer' do for them?"

"Oh, Holmes!" said I with a groan. "Have you learnt nothing from your time spent with me? It will... provide something for them to draw from - something to hold onto. Surely, you can understand that?"

He shrugged and cast his eyes down to his empty plate. "I suppose you are right. What do you suggest?"

So it was that we found ourselves in the Scotland Yard mess hall - or, what-ever it is that they call the police equivalent of the place in which the official force gather to eat, anyway - erecting a Christmas tree and setting up a present distribution list.

"What are you doing?" I asked, when my companion started to check the list.

"Ensuring that nobody was missed, naturally. Oh, Watson! You are not included. There. That remedies that."

I glared at his turned back. "I quite intentionally kept us off of that list."

Holmes shrugged and grinned at me from over his shoulder. "Well, then, this is not going to be much of a surprise, is it? They will know who it was that erected this tree if we are not mentioned, surely? Lestrade would have listed your name. Oh! Don't look like that! I have written with my left hand and you got Billy to write the other names - that should keep them guessing!"

I snorted. "In that case, Holmes, you should also add your own name. And then get back here - I cannot hold this tree up like this for very much longer!"

Holmes tutted and returned to securing the tree in the base which we had purchased for it. The base was fashioned from cast iron, brightly painted in red and green.

When at last the tree was secure, we set about decorating it with ribbons and glass balls of various colours and patterns. Then came the candles, which we clipped on and left to be lit.

We were just leaving with our empty boxes when Lestrade stepped out of a cab, looking as weary as he had when I had passed him on the street.

"Before he sees us! Quick!" Holmes hissed, grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me into the shadows.

We watched Lestrade approach the building at a plod, his head down, his steps weary. I doubt very much that he would have seen us had we not moved from the path before him.

Holmes heaved a sigh of relief, his breath a plume of steam in the frigid air. "Let us go, before anyone else arrives."

I nodded in agreement and we strode in the direction of the nearest cab stand together. Despite the chill in the air, I felt somewhat warmed by the small kindness that we had done and one glance at my companion told me that it was the same with him.

* * *

"It was the queerest thing," Lestrade told us, that evening. ""The writing on the list of names looked like that of a child, but that tree...!"

""Would you like me to look into it?" Holmes asked, loading his pipe.

Lestrade shook his head. "I wouldn't waste your time on it, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But you must agree that it is a queer thing. Why would anyone break in at Scotland Yard, only to trim up for us?"

"Perhaps someone felt that you all needed to be reminded of the promise of peace and goodwill for all men," said I. "Even for the official police force."

The inspector considered this and then smiled. "Perhaps..."

* * *

 **Paul and David found it difficult to agree upon this one. Paul wanted the tree and decorations to be a surprise, while David wanted me to write a piece in which Holmes and Watson are decorating with numerous interruptions/unwelcome advice. I feel that this works the better, however.**


	11. Light and Dark

**From W. Y. Traveller: Candles**

I do not despise Christmas decorations, for all that Watson might believe. What I do - always have and likely always shall - despise, however, is having to have them all down before my birthday. My birthday being the 6th day of January was utterly miserable, when I was a boy; why did the finery and gaiety have to end before my supposedly special day?

Watson perches himself at my side on the settee. "Can we not even have a small tree?" he pleads.

I turn my gaze upon him and heave a sigh. "Oh, Watson! Why? We shall only have to take it down and throw it out, when it is all over!"

He shrugs his good shoulder and turns his face away, but not before I have seen something of his pained expression.

"If it truly means so very much to you, do what you want," I snap at him. In all honesty, I would agree to anything if it would mean not seeing that look in his eyes again.

He thanks me and then stops. "Why does it bother you so much? Why would you not like to decorate?"

He would not understand, of course. I do not understand it, myself - not now, when I am so much older. But the lack of decorations on my birthday, when everything and everywhere had looked so festive only days before leaves the day feeling... well... depressing. I do not even celebrate it these days, however, so why should it matter?

Watson is staring at me with his steady, thoughtful gaze. "It is taking everything down that you object to," he reasons. "You said: 'Why, if we shall only have to take it down?' That suggests that it is not so much the decorations themselves that you dislike."

I lower my eyes, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"If you dislike the effort of taking it all down again, I shall not involve you in it," says he, reaching a completely erroneous conclusion.

"Thank you," I mutter, wishing that that would make the slightest bit of difference.

He frowns and considers my reaction. "You... would prefer not to have any decorations because you... dislike them being taken down in the New Year?"

When he says it like that, it sounds childish to the extreme. I want to deny it, but I cannot do so because I can think of no explanation for my words or reactions. Damn him! He has successfully both broken in through all of my defences and successfully deduced me!

"My birthday," I tell him slowly, whilst keeping my eyes fixed on my hands, which are clasped in my lap, "is on the 6th day of January. As a boy... I hated the day - the bare rooms, the silence, after all of the carols... it was... horrible."

He touches my arm. "Well... I am sure something could be done about that."

"I am not asking for you to do anything other than to understand me," I assure him. "I have - and likely always will - find January to be a depressing month. It is all the darker, to me, after having a bright and cheery house for most of the month prior."

He nods, patting my arm. "Yes, well... perhaps something can be done about that. I wish you had told me this before, Holmes."

I shrug. "You are the first that I have confided in that has not assured me that I would grow out of it."

Watson laughs and shakes his head. "I am a doctor, Holmes. I would be a poor one indeed, if I could not understand a simple thing like depression. It is not childish to feel the cold and darkness the more keenly when the light and warmth is gone, either; I myself am also aware of it, but life goes on and there is always the promise of Spring."

He then changes the subject back to choosing a tree and purchasing decorations. He intends to make up for the years that we have not decorated. Damn! I had hoped that he would understand!

* * *

Today is the 6th day of January. The decorations were packed away two days ago and the poor tree has been tossed away. I intend to remain in bed all day and pretend that it never dawned.

"Holmes," Watson calls, tapping upon my door. "Breakfast, old fellow - your favourite."

I can smell ham and eggs - delicious! My stomach eagerly responds with a gurgle and I suddenly doubt that I can remain shut away without anything to eat, today.

With a groan, I rise and attend to my toilet, tossing on the suit from yesterday.

It is now that I notice the glow from beneath my door. It looks as if the sitting room is aflame!

I step out and stop still in surprise. There are candles everywhere! Large ones in saucers, tapered ones in candlesticks... some are white or cream, others are coloured, some are the usual shape and still others are of a novelty design.

Watson laughs merrily. "I do not believe I have ever completely astounded you, before!"

I shake my head dumbly.

"I shall never get your limits," is all that I can say, when my voice is at last found.

He laughs again - a delightful sound for a January day! - and urges me to sit and partake of my breakfast before it goes cold.

As I take my seat, I find a brightly wrapped parcel upon the table alongside an envelope.

"Tut tut, Watson! You have only just given me a generous gift for Christmas, my boy! There was no need for this!"

The doctor merely smiles. "I was going to save it for next year," he confesses. "I bought two things for you when I saw them, because it is not always easy to think of anything when I am trying to find gifts."

That is a good idea, actually. Perhaps I should take a leaf from his book and purchase gifts when I see something worth getting, as opposed to waiting until December.

The gift is a new Bunsen burner. There is nothing wrong with the one I currently have, but this one looks as if it might be the more efficient.

"Thank you."

Then comes the first post and with it more envelopes. To go with Watson's card, depicting a beautiful country scene with what looks like a buzzard circling above a distant wood, comes a card from Lestrade (with a ship on it), one from Bradstreet (with a cat of all things upon the front and a dreadful pun on the inside) and one from Jones (with a scenic coastline and lighthouse on it).

"I thought I asked you not to tell anyone."

Watson shrugs. "I only told Mrs. Hudson. How Scotland Yard comes to know about it I really cannot say."

Well... they shall have probably all forgotten by next year and at least there was no surprise party, I suppose. Although... it is not yet nine... No! I am sure that Watson has more sense than to arrange something like that.

* * *

 **We all agreed on this one. We hope that you enjoyed it!**


	12. The Tree Arrives

**From mrspencil: decorating a Christmas tree**

 **We decided to follow on from yesterday with the Christmas Eve of the same year. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Holmes!" Watson calls, with rather more excitement in his tone than is expected of a bachelor on Christmas Eve. "The tree is here! Is there sufficient space for it?"

Why is he asking? The room is immaculate, as it was this morning - as it has been all week, in fact. Is this a traditional part of having a tree delivered?

"Yes," I call down to him. "It is clearer than it ever has been, since we moved in here."

I hear him instruct the men to take it up.

The tree is big, even beneath its wrappings! Slightly taller than me, in fact, though I shall be able to reach its top without difficulty. Watson, being of a somewhat more average height, will find those topmost branches difficult.

The moment the delivery men have been paid, my companion approaches the tree, rubbing his hands together and grinning.

"I have not had a tree like this since... well... not for quite some time, " says he.

How could I have been so selfish? Our bare rooms of previous years most likely reminded him of the Afghan campaign and all that followed. Hardship, inability to adequately support himself upon his return to London... Poor Watson! No matter the cost to me, I shall ensure that Christmas at Baker Street henceforth shall always have a tree - and countless other seasonal delights.

We unwrap the tree gently, so as not to dislodge too many needles. The doctor has chosen a beauty and I tell him as much cheerfully.

In my youth, the decorating of a tree was rather a solemn affair, which Mycroft and I were allowed only to watch. Watson is nothing like my parents, however.

The moment he takes up the first piece of velvet ribbon, purchased specifically for this purpose mere days ago, he bursts into song. For a moment, I can only stare at him, for I do not believe that I have known him to sing (aside from those few occasions when we have attended Church together) and I have never known anyone to sing whilst going about trimming up for Christmas.

He begins to falter, perhaps believing that I disapprove, so I hasten to join him as I take the other end of the ribbon to assist in wrapping it about the tree.

"...In the bleak Midwinter long, long ago. Heaven cannot hold Him, nor Earth sustain..."

This feels quite undignified, yet I am surprised to find that I care not a single jot. This is my Watson and for him I might well be prepared to do still stranger things than this. Perhaps I do not wish to know just how deep this new friendship runs.

There comes a tap at the sitting room door and Mrs. Hudson enters, joining the carol as if counted in. With her, she brings a tea tray loaded with mince pies and hot, spiced wine.

"...What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb..."

This is beyond strange, now! I am beginning to feel as if this is all a bizarre dream. I wait until the song has ended and Mrs. Hudson has left us before telling my friend as much.

"Are you not enjoying yourself?" he asks, a disappointed expression upon his face.

"No, I am! You misunderstand me. This is simply all very new to me. Christmas used to be a rather more sombre affair."

"But... it is a time to be jolly! To be grateful for what one has and to share one's own good fortunes with others."

That is a nice sentiment indeed. I smile at him, feeling that I have learnt much, today.

The food and drink is shared in a comfortable silence before we resume our work. This time, it is my turn to instigate carol singing and Watson's to follow my lead.

I am happier today than I have ever been. What a glorious Christmas Eve!


	13. Snow!

**From W. Y. Traveller: Snow**

I hate snow! It was fun enough when I was a lad and the kiddies still love it well enough, but it's just a nuisance when you need to get about. It hides evidence, covers tracks... even Holmes hates the stuff, aside from those times when the combination of snow and a good frost preserves a scene.

Still, I suppose I shouldn't grumble. It is nice to hear the kiddies laughing and playing, on their way to and from the school. I know my three will be off to Regents Park for some winter fun, the minute school finishes for the day - we'll be lucky if they remember to come home before it gets dark! Maybe I could ask Mr. Holmes to keep a look out for them, if it's not too much trouble.

Maybe not. It looks as if he is engaged in something - he has just stepped inside my office, soaking wet and covered with snow.

"Lestrade," says he with a quick smile. ""How are you?"

Oh, this is bad! He only ever remembers pleasantries when he is stalling. "Can't complain, Mr. Holmes. How are you?"

He sniffs and dabs at the tip of his nose with a handkerchief. "Very well, thank you. It is dreadfully cold out."

I raise my eyebrows at him, wondering if we truly are going to start talking about the weather next. Why is he stalling? "What brings you here?"

He shivers and I realise that he truly is chilled. "Warmth, to tell you the truth. I have just finished a case and have walked from Charing Cross. There was not a cab to be had and..."

I pull him up a chair, telling him to remove his coat and warm himself. Why did he not say so in the first place?

"Where is the doctor?" I ask, concerned that he has been left behind somewhere.

Holmes gives another shiver. "Waiting for me at home. I do my best to spare Watson, this weather - it is bad enough that I have to drag myself through it, without forcing it upon another."

I'm tempted to let Watson know that he is here. "Is he expecting you home at a particular time?"

He coughs into his handkerchief and shakes his head. "I did not know for how long I would be engaged - nor how the trains might run, this weather."

Then there's no hurry. All the same, I should feel a lot better knowing that this idiot was home safe and sound.

I get Constable McPherson to bring us some hot tea and biscuits for my daft acquaintance. I still find it difficult to understand why he would walk all this way in such awful weather! There is a keen wind and the snow makes a walk very much longer. Why did he not shelter inside a tea shop, along the way?

"Here we are," the constable announces brightly, as he sets down the tray.

Holmes warms his hands on his cup after I have poured it out, but he touches not a drop, preferring to stare out of the window.

"You are certain that you are well...?" I question carefully.

He blinks his eyes and turns to me. "Do excuse me, Lestrade. Yes, I am quite well."

"Well, good. Listen, I know you are almost home, now, but would you let me take you back in a growler? You look done! Chilled to the bone, too, I wouldn't wonder."

He blinks again and seems surprised. "Well... are you sure? I do not mean to interrupt your work."

"I can finish off here while you drink your tea," I assure him. "We can't have the Great Detective laid up with a cold, can we? The doctor would kill me!"

Holmes laughs and takes a sip of the tea. "This is surprisingly good. Thank you."

I nod. "McPherson makes the best tea around here."

"Indeed! I shall keep that in mind."

I hardly look at my work while I wait for Holmes, to tell the truth. I am all too aware of his shivering and the constant dabbing and wiping at his nose. Clearly, he needs the ministrations of his friend, if he is to avoid the onset of something nasty.

"Come on," I stand, donning coat and muffler. "We should get you home."

The growler at least has a pile of blankets in it and I ensure that he is well wrapped up. The shivering seems to lessen somewhat, but I continue to keep an eye on him.

"Thank you."

I shrug. "Taking you home gives me an excuse to look out for my children," I confide. "If left to their own devices, they would stay out, playing in the snow. But it is too cold for that, today."

He nods and gives another shiver. "Will you need any assistance?"

"No," I assure him. "Thank you all the same, Mr. Holmes, but if they are in Regents Park I can find them easily enough."

I am taking him home to get warm, not to go traipsing around in the park! How does the doctor keep his patience with this man?


	14. Lestrade is Smitten

**From Stutley Constable: Lestrade is smitten.**

* * *

The wait has been longer than I had hoped. If the criminal does not show himself soon, we shall all be too stiff and cold to apprehend him without the use of our revolvers, which always bothers me. I prefer not to use violence.

I silence a sneeze and see Watson's face turn towards me at the sudden movement in the darkness. He should not be watching me and I shall have to remind him of the importance of... Wait! What was that? A sound - a movement, a little way off. Footsteps!

With a motion to Watson, I prepare to stand, hoping all the while that Lestrade is paying attention in his own hiding place.

The criminal appears on the scene with the tools of his trade in a pack at his shoulder. I can clearly see a crowbar protruding from it. Excellent! I wait until he has picked the lock of his intended target and stepped inside, shining a dark lantern this way and that. Only when his back is turned do I stand.

"We can take it from here," Lestrade tells me, as he approaches with three constables. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

I quirk an eyebrow at him. "We agreed that he was dangerous and..."

"And so I brought three constables with me. You are welcome to wait here, by all means, but I have this well in hand. Good night, gentlemen."

I watch them enter with some misgivings, rubbing at my arms in the night's chill.

"I am sorry, Holmes," says Watson. "Perhaps we should go home and get warm, seeing as Lestrade no longer requires -"

His words die on his lips, for from within comes the sound of a struggle. Well, I did warn the inspector that this man boxes in his spare time and that some of the tools which he habitually carries are also more than adequate as improvised weapons.

The man comes running out, wielding a bloody crowbar. He leaps the stairs and begins to run between us, only to be tripped by the end of my cane. Instantly, I am upon him, my knee digging into the small of his back while I snatch away the improvised weapon, taking advantage of his being momentarily stunned by the fall.

It takes me mere moments to have him secured and his pockets, cuffs and shoes searched for further weapons. There is both a knife and a file in his pockets, plus a set of lock picks. I hand these to Watson and instruct him to go and check on our friends of the official force.

Watson is gone for all but a moment, then emerges to sound his police whistle for reinforcements off the street. I shudder to think what has taken place and try not to imagine the worst.

"What have you done to my friends?" I demand to know, shaking the villain roughly by his bound arms.

He turns a sneer upon me. "Who'd be friends with peelers?"

"I would, apparently." However, this is the first time that I have called them anything other than colleagues or acquaintances. What has changed? I shall consider that later.

"They was in me way, so I lashed out. That's all. The little rat of a man got 'is 'at 'It off wiv me crowbar and I punched 'im for good measure. I toppled a glass cabinet full of jewels on top o' the ones in uniform. Would've got clean away, too."

I feel sick at the thought of the damage done and the speed by which it was rendered. Thank goodness Watson was with me! Thank goodness he is such a skilled doctor - and that he has his bag with him! Might Lestrade listen, in the future, when I warn him of possible (or likely) danger? When will the Yarders come to realise that I say nothing lightly?

It takes me a moment to realise that reinforcements have arrived in the form of two constables, approaching from opposite directions. I hand the apprehended criminal over to them and inform them of the state of affairs. While one assists me in guarding the villain, the other sets off in the direction of the nearest police station for further assistance.

The door opens and a pale constable emerges. His hands are bandaged and there are bloodied sticking plasters at his face. He staggers slightly and wisely seats himself upon the steps as opposed to attempting to descend them. I see that he is shivering and approach him to drape my own coat about his quaking shoulders.

"Thank you. I thought I should get some air - let Doctor Watson work in peace."

I nod and touch his arm. "Does Watson need assistance, would you say?" I sincerely hope that he does not, for I am not very good in these situations.

"The inspector might want to know what's going on."

With another nod, I straighten my back and enter the little shop.

Watson has Lestrade nicely patched up, but he is at least as pale as his constable and his dark eyes are staring without seeing. Concussion? Highly likely, seeing as he has been hit over the head with a crowbar. I believe Watson would keep him talking, were he not busily working at stopping the bleeding of a constable's arm.

"Lestrade? Your man is outside. We caught him."

"Yes, Watson told me. I shouldn't have sent you away."

No, he should not. "We shall talk about that later, at Baker Street."

"Baker Street?" he repeats, incredulously. "Baker Street? I want to go home to bed!"

Perhaps I have not made myself clear. "I did not mean tonight, Inspector. I meant... later. Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner, when you are not too busy?"

He swallows awkwardly and pales further still. "I should like to visit you... later."

I rub at my arms and he appraises me with a flick of his dark eyes. "You've lost your coat."

"So it would appear, yes. I gave it to the constable outside, as he looked rather colder than I felt."

"Shock," Watson says, without looking up. "We could do with blankets. Has a growler been sent for?"

How the deuce should I know? "I believe so."

"Good. I hope it shall come equipped with some."

When the growler indeed arrives, I am indeed able to retrieve my coat and don it gratefully. I then see the injured Yarders safely inside, along with their captured criminal.

"Are you not coming?" Lestrade asks.

I shrug my shoulders. "I believe you have everything well in hand, now. Besides, I should like to get home and warm up. Good night, Lestrade."

Watson has already given instructions to the two uninjured constables on the care of a concussion and symptoms to watch for, so I am not in the least concerned. Besides, the doctor looks quite bone weary and chilled - I really should concentrate on his requirements, now. A warming drink, a good fire and bed sound absolutely heavenly!

* * *

 **Not smitten as in besotted, but smitten as in struck a blow.**


	15. Disappearance

**From Winter Winks 221: The Woman Returns**

* * *

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Irene Norton approached my companion, wringing her hands. "I need your help. My husband has disappeared."

Holmes almost dropped his pipe, but he recovered himself too swiftly for anyone besides myself to notice.

"Do sit down, Mrs. Norton, and tell me all. The slightest detail may be of the utmost importance."

"Well... the day began just like any other. We breakfasted together, he went to work, the same as usual..."

"You are telling me nothing," Holmes snapped. "You have told me nothing of your routines, of Mr. Norton's place of work - nothing! Data, data, data, Mrs. Norton! I cannot make bricks without clay!"

She nodded. "We always have breakfast at the same time, at eight o'clock. Godfrey always leaves for work after, at just before half-past eight."

"Did your husband appear troubled?"

"I've asked myself the same question," said she. "But I don't think so. He ate a good breakfast, with his usual demeanour - a bright smile, I mean - and he kissed me on the cheek, same as always, and said he wouldn't be back late. And that was the last I saw of him, more than four and twenty hours ago!"

"Did he arrive at his place of work, do you know?" I asked.

She nodded. "The police looked into it. They say he turned up, worked all day, then left. They think it's harmless enough - that maybe he met an old friend and they ended up exchanging holiday greetings, or something."

"Well... It is possible," said I. "It is not usually the sort of thing that I would do unannounced and yet I have been known to do such things, when meeting an old acquaintance."

"But surely, you would send word to your wife?"

I nodded, feeling my face flush under her gaze. "Well, yes... unless I have truly lost all track of the time - when caught up in an unexpected adventure..."

She frowned at me. "My husband would never be so thoughtless," said she, turning her attention back to Holmes. "No, Mr. Holmes, I cannot believe that Godfrey had just forgotten to let me know where he is or what he's doing. Would you help me?"

Holmes nodded. "I shall. Tell me, has your husband any enemies?"

She shivered. "I suppose you might say my enemies are his, now..."

He nodded pensively. "You suspect the King of Bohemia."

"Well... yes. Mr. Holmes, he is a dangerous man to get on the wrong side of - why else would I want protection from him?"

Another pensive nod. "Quite so. I shall look into the matter. I warn you, however, that i am not a magician."


	16. First Snowfall

**From Domina Temporis: The first snowfall of the year**

* * *

Watson has been quite unwell these past three days. Though his condition has not been particularly serious, I am all too aware that he could worsen at any time if I am not watchful. At regular intervals throughout the past days and nights, I have guarded him from decline by checking on his condition and ensuring that the fire burning in his hearth stays lit - I have also ensured that fresh drinking water and handkerchiefs are always in good supply. I have only dosed him twice with a cooling medicine as I hate the foul stuff and will only force it upon my companion when it is absolutely necessary to do so (without relish, I hasten to add; though I am perfectly aware that I am - quite literally - giving the doctor a taste of his own vile medicine).

"Holmes?"

What the deuce is he doing up? I sit up on the settee, where I have been trying to snatch forty winks whilst also listening out for my friend. I appraise him swiftly. Face: pale. Eyes: both glassy and weary. Nose: red. Shivers: much less persistent; almost gone altogether...

"I am feeling much better," says he, in a tone which will not allow for argument. "I would advise a patient in a similar condition that he would benefit from light exercise and fresh air - a short, gentle walk."

I raise an eyebrow. "It is cold out."

"Yes, Holmes, I understand that that is the common lot in Wintertime. That is why we have mufflers and heavy coats."

I drum my fingers upon the arm of the settee, though I am pleased to see him smile a little.

"You would tell me that I should first eat a good breakfast," I remind him. "And that, if you are satisfied, we shall venture out afterwards. Not before."

The little smile becomes a smirk. "It seems you do listen to me, after all. Why you cannot remember the things that I have told you countless times when it is you that is unwell..."

I shrug my shoulders. "Nobody is capable of thinking clearly when they are unwell, Doctor; it is why I am so careful with you, in fact." It is at least my main reason, anyway. I would not wish for him to accidentally overdose or take the wrong thing.

Preferring Watson's needs over my own, I insist on taking his usual seat at the table (in front of the window), so that he is close to the fire. I pour the tea and permit the doctor to fill his plate first. He must be hungry, for he has barely looked at food these past three days. It is for that very reason that I wish he had rested and kept warm one more day.

We are midway through our breakfast when my friend looks to me - and then past my ear, a bright smile forming on his face. "Holmes! It is snowing!"

It has in fact been snowing continuously since yesterday afternoon.

"Ah, I thought the weather had become a little milder," I reply, turning to look over my shoulder. "So it is - big flakes, too... We should put off our walk until after it has stopped, of course. I do not want you relapsing."

He tuts and resumes his breakfast without a word. As much as he might hate to admit it, he knows that I am right.

When breakfast is finished, we move to the window to watch the snow. It is still falling heavily - enormous flakes of white!

"Do you think we might have a white Christmas, this year?" Watson asks.

"It is rather early to say, old fellow." I sincerely hope not! It is difficult enough to get about as cases dictate when the weather is fair, during the festive period, without bringing snow into the equation.

"I hope that we do. Snow makes the world appear so much softer and prettier - even in London."

That is undeniable. Well, if there is a white Christmas, I hope that there are no emergencies this year - no clients in desperate situations, no races against time... I refrain from speaking my mind.

Watson sniffs and blows his nose, before casting me an apologetic glance.

"How are you faring, my dear chap?"

"I am all right, Holmes. You have taken very good..." he stops, scrunching his eyes closed whilst readying his handkerchief. "Hushoosh! Oh... excuse me. You have taken very good care of me, I assure you."

"You have trained me well," I chuckle.

He nods. "So it would seem. We shall make a doctor of you yet."

I hope not! Tending to Watson is one thing, but tending to a stranger is rather a different matter.

"The snow appears to be stopping, Holmes."

Yes and he is clearly not going to back down. "Very well, doctor. See that you dress warmly."

He huffs a response and disappears upstairs.

"Two pairs of stockings!" I call after him, grinning. It makes rather a pleasant change to boss him about in such a way.

Regents Park is busy indeed! There are children everywhere, building snowmen, sliding down the hillside on sledges and fighting snowball battles.

"Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!"

It would appear that there are also one or two Yarders in evidence. Lestrade joins us with his wife, smiling brightly. "I haven't seen you for a few days. Have you been busy?"

Watson shivers. ""Yes, you might say that."

The inspector nods. "I have been busy, myself, but I've booked a couple of days off. We're meant to be getting ready for Christmas, but the children wanted to enjoy the first snow of the year and... well... I can't remember the last time I had the chance to enjoy this weather."

I see the doctor give another shiver and squeeze his arm. I do not want him to stand about chatting.

"You and your lovely wife are welcome to join us for our walk, Inspector, but Watson is just getting over a severe chill and I would rather not keep him standing about."

My companion digs me in the ribs with his elbow, but I pay him no heed.

"Oh! Of course," Lestrade nods. "Yes, I shouldn't keep you. I had no idea - you should have said, Doctor!"

Before I can say anything more, young Tim runs up, pulling the sledge along behind him. "Did you see me go down the big hill?" he asks, excitedly.

"I saw you," Mrs. Lestrade assures him. She is a good mother and has not taken her eyes off of the children at play. "You went very fast!"

He grins. "I'm going again! Watch!"

"Mind out!" Lestrade pulls his son out of the path of an oncoming sledge. "Hey! Georgie! Try not to run down anyone on the paths - keep to the grass, like we told you, eh?"

"That looks like fun," says Watson.

I give his arm a shake. "We should get back to our walk. Nice to see you Lestrade, Mrs. Lestrade."

"Why not come back with us for tea?" Mrs. Lestrade suggests. "The children must be getting quite chilled, now."

Tim looks decidedly disappointed.

"Have one more go," Mr. Lestrade tells him. "Then we should get back. Had enough, Georgie? I thought not. Go on, then, one more time. Tell Alice, if you see her."

"Never mind!" I call to Lestrade. "She is on her way down. I shall tell her when she reaches the bottom."

After what seems an age, we reach the Lestrade residence and remove our heavy coats and mufflers. In an instant, Mrs. Lestrade is supplying us with a choice of hot drinks and mince pies, while the children play together in the parlour.

Perhaps snow is not all misery, after all.

* * *

 **Bringing in the Lestrade family was David's idea - he is becoming rather fond of young Tim. The beginning is mostly courtesy of Paul, who enjoys Holmes' irony. We hope that you enjoyed it!**


	17. Mycroft in Trouble

**From mrspencil: Mycroft is in trouble**

 **My thanks to my dearest Hatty, for suggesting this response. I must confess that we have had fun with this one, though much of this went over the boys' heads.**

* * *

Someone is waiting in the sitting room, for the lamps are lit. I touch Watson's arm and press a finger to my lips for silence. Why did Mrs. Hudson not inform us that somebody was here? Did she forget? Nay! That is unthinkable! Clearly, this is a fiend up to no good, who has somehow succeeded in sneaking past her.

I rush into the room a little ahead of the doctor, intending to employ myself as a human shield against any sudden projectile. I then can only stop and stare at the gentleman I would least expect to find seated in my chair, close to the fire.

"Mycroft!" I almost gasp, upon finally locating my voice. "What the deuce are you doing here?"

He gives a lopsided smirk. "It is also good to see you, Sherlock. Well, come in and close that door behind you - you are letting the cold in."

Watson and I obey, exchanging puzzled expressions.

"What brings you here?" I ask of my (usually) lazy brother. "Surely, it is not merely to exchange season's greetings, for you have never bothered in previous years."

"Certainly not," he snorts. "I bring you work, brother mine. I am being blackmailed. As it happens, the claims are both fabricated and ridiculous, but... should the wrong ears catch a whisper of it, it may not matter - you know what they say about smoke and fire."

"What is the... rumour?" Watson enquires carefully.

Mycroft sniffs. "I apparently have an illegitimate son, born three years ago. The mother is supposedly the maid of a household in Switzerland, who hosted me when I was forced to stay there on business. Do you find this amusing, Sherlock?"

I brush away a tear of mirth and attempt to stifle my laughter. "The thought of you, of all people..."

He pierces me with a frosty glare. "As I said, it is quite preposterous to even consider that I might be capable of so stupid an indiscretion, Sherlock, but it is not a laughing matter. Are you willing to take my case?"

I chuckle. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure," I assure him.


	18. A Night on the Moor

**From zanganito: Heather**

 **My thanks to Ems for her descriptions of the North York Moors. I could have used Dartmoor, but I decided to pick a different landscape.**

* * *

Holmes shivered and pulled his cloak closer.

"We shall get no farther, tonight," he told me through teeth he could not quite keep from chattering.

I nodded and looked about us in the oncoming dusk. There was not a building in sight - not so much as an old barn - and it looked as if the snow was coming again. I sniffed and pulled my handkerchief from my sleeve in order to wipe at my nose.

"Do you feel equal to assisting me in building a shelter for the night?"

"Yes, of course," said I, though I had not the slightest idea where to start. All about us was the endless North Yorkshire Moor, white with snow. We were wet and chilled to the marrow, too - the shelter would need to be a good one.

As usual, Holmes was rather more aware of our surroundings than I was. He had already noticed a slight hollow and took to inspecting it.

"We are in luck, doctor," he informed me. "We have a good, dry space, here, sheltered from the wind by the hillside. The heather should make comfortable enough bedding; it shall at least be quite warm, here."

Holmes' idea of comfort left rather a lot to be desired, I thought, but we were indeed at least sheltered from the wind and snow. My friend took some branches from a few nearby trees and together we arranged those over our sheltered spot, to ensure that our body heat would not escape into the oncoming night.

I shivered as my body slowly began to thaw. Despite our work, I found myself wishing for hot water and a good, warming dinner.

Holmes took out his hip flask and sipped from it. "I am sorry that I can do no better, Watson."

I shrugged, unpacking what was left of the food we had brought and sharing it between us. We were in for a hungry night and a still hungrier morning.

"I have stayed in worse locations," said I with a smile. "We shall call this a four star hotel - I can see that number through the roof."

He laughed and patted my good shoulder. "Good old Watson! It is always good to have you with me, my dear fellow."

We ate our meagre rations in silence, most likely both hoping for better luck tomorrow, and then pressed our bodies close together for warmth, using our cloaks for blankets. I was surprised to discover that the heather truly was not all that bad and that its smell was at least a pleasant one.

"Good night, Holmes," I whispered, closing my drooping eyelids at last. I was not sure whether he was already slumbering or not and had no wish to disturb my companion.

"Good rest, my dear friend," he replied softly. "Perhaps, in the morning, our luck might improve."

"I am sure of it," said I, taking his hand in mine. "But we shall both need to be as well rested as possible. Sleep, now."

I heard him give a quiet chuckle. "Yes, Doctor."


	19. Left Behind

**From BookRookie12: The things we leave behind.**

* * *

Some things we leave behind gladly. Other things, by comparison, rather leave us behind, whether we like it or not.

I have left Holmes behind, his body forever hidden in the abyss beneath a torrent of water. I would much have preferred to bring his body home with me, if only to give him a proper burial. It felt wrong to leave him there, but there was nothing else I could do save join him (which, for a moment, had been a terrible temptation).

But, has Holmes not also left me, so as to undertake the greatest adventure of all? He has gone where I am not yet ready or able to follow, leaving me to continue alone. There is nothing for me to do but to return to London, with heavy heart. I know not what I shall tell Mary, let alone his brother.

It is hard to leave him in this terrible place.


	20. Codenames

**From Book girl fan: Sherlock Holmes is actually a codename.**

 **Not an easy prompt to answer, but we have done our very best.**

* * *

I am tired. Tired of lying. Tired of allowing my friends to call me by a name which is not mine.

I wish I had never agreed to work undercover at college - it interfered with my studies and kept me from graduating and it caused me to become stuck with a name which was not my own.

That was all so long ago, now! It should all simply be water that has passed under the bridge. The question is: when can I admit to Watson that my true name is actually Samuel Horst, a comparatively unassuming name? When can Sherlock Holmes finally be laid to rest?

Hum! If Mycroft has his way, the answer will most likely be "never" - "Sherlock Holmes" will most likely be the name on my wretched tombstone.

I hate Sherlock Holmes, today!


	21. A Tail

**From mrspencil: Watson is being followed**

 **This one has been a lot of fun!**

* * *

I had spent a long day working cases of my own and the hour was approaching ten o'clock when I finally turned my weary footsteps in the direction of home.

The weather was bitterly cold! Snow had fallen during the day, but now a freezing fog had crawled in from off the Thames. I shivered as the frozen snow crunched noisily beneath my feet; all other sound was muffled slightly by the ice crystals which surrounded me.

I was still a long way from Baker Street when I became aware of the sound of a second set of footsteps crunching along behind me. I stopped a moment to look in at the window of a shop alongside me and the footsteps behind me did the same.

Using the window as a mirror, I attempted to get a good look at the owner of these footsteps, but the street was too dark and the fog made a perfect cover. Cold and weary as I was, I had no choice but to press on. The footsteps started again after I had gone on three paces.

All thoughts of home were quickly dashed from my mind as my fear rose steadily. I was without my revolver, in a far from pleasant neighbourhood and I wanted to get in off the street as soon as was possible.

Lestrade's home was nearer and so, without so much as a glance to look behind or the slightest quickening of pace, I altered my route ever so slightly.

My limp was becoming the more pronounced as I turned onto Lestrade's street but I made an effort to keep up my pace. The footsteps were directly behind me, now; whoever this was was getting bolder and I was becoming increasingly nervous.

As I strode up to the Lestrade Family's door, the footsteps once again stopped. I again used the glass of the window beside me to look into the street at my back and could clearly see a rough standing under a lamppost, watching me carefully.

"Doctor Watson!" Mrs. Lestrade greeted me, upon answering the pull at the bell. "Do come in! You look frozen. Not lost your keys again, have you?"

I checked my pocket at her words as I stepped inside. No, my keys were still in my pocket.

"I hope I am not intruding," said I. "Is your husband at home?"

She shook her head. "He should be back by now, but you know how it is."

"Then I should not intrude," said I, preparing to depart.

"Nonsense, Doctor! Please, at least come and warm yourself beside the fire. Would you like some tea?"

"Well... only if you are having a cup."

She lead me through to the parlour and urged me to remove my outdoor clothing and to be seated close to the fire. I was truly grateful, though I did regret calling upon the family so late at night.

The kettle had not yet boiled when the front door opened and I heard Lestrade's familiar tread in the hall.

"Sorry I'm so late," I heard him say. "You just wouldn't believe the night I've had!"

Upon hearing that I was waiting for him, he entered the parlour with quite obvious misgivings.

"Hello, Doctor! Has Mr. Holmes sent you to collect me?"

I shook my head. "No, I fear I have intruded upon you of my own volition," said I, standing to shake him by the hand.

He brightened considerably and looked me up and down. ""What brings you here?"

I told him of being followed and finding myself to be somewhat vulnerable without my old revolver.

"I decided to come here, as your home was nearer than Baker Street," I finished.

Lestrade nodded pensively. "I think I might've caught a glimpse of the man," said he. "He was there still when I came home. Took one look at me and scarpered, quick as a wink. If you're being followed by unsavoury characters, I think you should stop here for a while, Doctor. Stay the night. I'll take a message to Mr. Holmes."

"But you have only just came home!" I protested.

"It's not too far. Besides, I'll take a cab. I'll not be long."

I watched him shrug on his coat and then he was gone.

That was last night. I have slept not a wink and have instead lay awake all night, wondering who it is that would wish to follow me about London and whether Holmes is safe or not. I am somewhat anxious to return to Baker Street.


	22. Abduction!

**From Hades Lord of the Dead: Start a story with this sentence. "Doctor John H Watson has not been seen for four days."**

* * *

Doctor John H Watson has not been seen for four days. The last time I saw him, I was dropping him off at Baker Street and urging him to have a care. If I had thought it would make a jot of difference, I might have told him not to go on his rounds for a few days, but I know the doctor as well as I know my own kiddies.

Mr. Holmes is... well... beside himself. Never have I known him so frantic! I have seen him concerned for a client of his, but this goes much deeper. I suppose it is understandable, but I am not accustomed to seeing much in the way of shows of emotion from the man aside from the occasional flash of temper. Speaking of which, maybe I should ensure that he will not be alone, when he catches up with the man I caught in the act of following the good doctor, because there is a strong chance he might become violent.

On saying that, I might have a job keeping my own hands to myself. Watson is a good man and this makes no sense to me at all. Why would anyone want to menace him, let alone wish him to disappear? He tended my daughter once, when she was sick with scarlet fever - stayed up all the night long with her and never took a penny from me, insisting that we were friends. I know that I am not the only one who he has helped in such a way, either. He and Mr. Holmes are both quite charitable with their gifts, truth be told. Funny how I can no longer think of one without thinking of the other.

The hour is fast approaching nine and my men and I are bone weary, but I cannot rest yet. I had best locate Mr. Holmes and team up with him. We can keep each other in check, that way. God help the criminals when they turn on the saints of this world!

* * *

At just after ten o'clock, I found Holmes. He wanted me to accompany him and tell him if I recognised the man I saw loitering outside my home. I went along with him willingly enough to Camden Town, where we kept watch of the street from a room he had already hired for a few days.

We had not been there for very long when there was a sound of a front door being closed very softly and we both looked out to see a man, bundled up against the wind and carrying a basket descend the front steps.

"Is that the man that you saw?" Holmes whispered to me.

I confirmed that it was. I recalled that the man had had a dark green patch at the left elbow of his coat and I saw it again as he passed under a street lamp.

"Excellent. Then come - we must not lose him!"

He dashed down the stairs like a greyhound after a rabbit and I was forced to hurry after him, down the stairs and out, into the snow-covered street.

Holmes told me in a low whisper to wait and then follow along behind him as if I was making my way home from work, at a good distance and following his footprints as opposed to keeping him in sight, explaining (as is his wont) that I look like a policeman and would stand out to anyone up to no good.

As I followed Holmes at my casual distance, I wondered how he had come to locate this suspect. Who was he? Did Holmes know him? Did the doctor?

* * *

I followed Holmes' footprints to an old, abandoned warehouse and stopped at the door, which had been left ajar. From inside, I could hear a horrible, sneering voice.

"Look, Doc, I brough' yer some food, see? All yer 'ave to do is tell me wha' yer told the police an' yer can 'ave anyfink yer likes, see?"

"But I have told you already that the police are not involved!" Watson's tired voice replied, so quietly that I could barely hear him. "Now... please... I need some water... so thirsty..."

"Nope! No more wa'er. I already told yer, yer no' 'lowed no more wa'er."

I froze at the words and made the decision to get to the nearest police station and demand that someone send a rescue party. If the doctor was being abused, there was no telling what condition he might be in.

* * *

By the time I had returned with some drinking water (the rescue party was still being organised, so I went on ahead), all was quiet and still. I was about to go inside when Holmes came out.

"Where the deuce have you been?" he snapped at me. Then he saw the flask I carried and understood.

"All quiet?" I asked carefully, as we stepped back inside.

Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I knocked Flanders out, if that is what you mean, before tying him to the very chair which he had left Watson in, these last four days. I have a mind to leave him here indefinitely and see how he likes that."

"We can't do that."

He flashed me a quick smile. "I can do what the blazes I like, Lestrade. Wait until you see Watson and then tell me what you should like to do with this fiend."

I touched his arm and found that he was shaking. That the warehouse was cold was undeniable, but I had the distinct impression that he was more trembling with rage than shivering from cold.

Little wonder, too! The sight which met my eyes will forever haunt me. Watson was injured - there was a caking of blood at his temple and he also had a black eye. He was also pale and weary. His movements suggested other, unseen injuries, but he was crouched in deep shadow and it was difficult to see the condition he was in; mostly because Holmes repeatedly gestured for me to keep my distance from the doctor. I shall never be able to understand that - I have rescued captives before, dash it all!

I noticed that his abductor was sporting very similar visible injuries, himself... I cared very little about that - I had eyes only for our friend.

Holmes took the flask from me and poured a tiny quantity into the cap, which he held to the doctor's parched lips.

"Watson, drink this - very slowly. There is no rush; plenty where this came from, my dear fellow."

The doctor did as instructed and then gave a start as he noticed me for the first time.

"Inspector! I am so sorry..."

I shall never understand what he was sorry about. The scare he had given all that knew him, perhaps?

"There's nothing to be sorry about," I assured him gently. "I'm just glad you're safe."

"Lestrade, where did you get the water?" Holmes interrupted with an urgency in his tone.

I told him. I also told him of the rescue party that was getting itself organised.

"Well, for God's sake stand them down! Watson is not going to want a party of young constables milling about, gawping at him! Go - now!"

I turned to do just that, but was called back.

"Lestrade, bring a change of clothing - warm as you can manage - and a soap and sponge. And more water, so that they might be put to use."

I promised to do so and dashed away again, deciding to take a cab to Baker Street (once the rescue party had been stood down), collect some of their own things and to return with the cab, so as to be able to get the doctor home safely and in as much comfort as possible.

* * *

When I finally returned, Holmes snatched the items from me and made me wait with the cab. I chatted with the cabbie and paced up and down in the snow, wondering what was going on.

Eventually, Watson emerged in his fresh suit, supported by Holmes. He looked awful, but better than he had when I had first seen him.

We helped him to sit down. He must have had other injuries, because sitting down looked painful, and then we bundled him up in the blankets. Holmes told me he was too weary to shiver, which clearly worried him as much as it worried me.

Back at Baker Street, Holmes gave me a very brief "thank you" and then took Watson in and up the stairs without so much as a backward glance. Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, was kindness itself. She made me tea and urged me to sit with her at her table and tell her as much as I could.

When I eventually prepared to leave to return to my wife, I realised that our criminal had been left behind in that warehouse. I sent a message to my station, for I was in no condition to return there that night, and decided that I was in no hurry to rescue the wretch. He could rot, for all that I cared, but the Law is the Law. Even when it is an ass.


	23. The Stolen Glove

**From mrspencil: a tale including a stolen glove, an animal of some sort, Mrs Hudson, and Mycroft**

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Why can the wretched woman not leave well alone? Where is it? Where the deuce is it? I may not be the most tidy of men, but I do at least keep my pairs... paired, as opposed to tossed in opposite directions.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"What is it, Mr. Holmes? I am washing curtains. Incidentally, if you could take down the ones hanging in your sitting room, I shall exchange them for the heavy, wintertime ones."

"Hang the curtains!"

"When they are sufficiently dried, yes," her voice replies, with the least hint of humour.

"Mrs. Hudson, where is my best glove?"

She steps out into the hall, wiping dripping hands upon her apron as she looks up at me. "Where have you looked?"

I snarl impatiently. "Everywhere, dash it all! Even under the settee."

"Mr. Holmes, you are a detective. Instead of shouting at me and tearing your rooms apart, perhaps you should try following the very advice that you might give another, in a similar predicament."

With that, she returns to the kitchen without another word.

She is right, of course. Well, what would I advise somebody else to do? To retrace his steps, I suppose. Where did I last have them? Did I wear them home, last night? It is difficult to recall, for they are a thing I am so accustomed to wearing... Hum! Perhaps I left them in my pocket? If so, one might have fallen out in the cab or at Mycroft's.

I begin at the cab stand, but no lost property had been found since last night. The drivers all agree to keep an eye out and that is as much as I can ask of them. I now take a cab to Pall Mall.

"Back again so soon, Brother Mine?" Mycroft smirks at me. "In some distress, too. Do you require advice?"

I shake my head somewhat impatiently. "I am trying to locate the glove to match this one," I explain, holding out my left glove. It is of black leather, with a shining brass buckle at the wrist, with which to adjust the fit, and fine detailing at the back of the hand. "I had both with me when I came here, but now I can only find one."

He assures me that I was wearing the pair when I left, for he distinctly remembers my adjusting the fit so as to keep out the cold. Now that he mentions it, so do I. Damn! I had hoped that it would be here. Back out into the biting wind I go and hail a cab back to Baker Street. If I was wearing my gloves when I left Mycroft, I did not leave them in my pocket, therefore I did not lose one on my way home. It has to be in the house, somewhere.

Upon returning to Baker Street, I am reminded to take down the sitting room curtains and also to set my wash basket out on the landing. I assure Mrs. Hudson that I shall, but later. Can she not see that I am busy?

I make my way into the sitting room, set down my remaining glove and resume my search. Where can it have gone? The left glove was left on my desk, but the right was not there - not on top, not amongst my papers, fallen into one of the drawers, down the back or on the floor. I searched the settee, checked the mantlepiece... Think, think, think! Where have I not looked?

"Mr. Holmes?"

I stop and turn my head in the direction of the quiet voice. There is a mouse in a dressing gown standing atop the fireplace. This is not the unusual sight that it should be, however.

"Good morning, Mr. Basil."

He politely inclines his head. "Good morning. I am very sorry to trouble you, but I believe you are looking for a missing black leather glove, of fine quality, for the right hand."

"You are correct," I confirm with some surprise. "Have you seen it?"

He gives an awkward smile and rubs at the back of his neck. "How embarrassing! I am afraid that we have stolen it. Dawson required a makeshift couch for an unexpected patient in the middle of the night - I rather hoped that we could return it before you missed it."

I straighten up with some indignation at the words. "Now look here, Basil. While I sympathise with the situation, you really should ask before you help yourself to our things. From now on, you should either ask first or - if circumstances dictate otherwise - leave a note. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly," says he, relaxing visibly. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Uh... if you have any old leather that we might use instead, I shall return the glove which you are looking for now, in the condition that it was in when Dawson and I took it."

"Wait there," I all but order him, before dashing into my bedroom.

I have some old pairs of gloves in my disguises box - a choice of two. He can certainly have one of those! Old gloves are easily acquired and do not necessarily have to fit well.

Truly, I hope he and Dawson do remember to ask for the things they need, in the future.


	24. The Parlour Maid's Statement

**From Stutley Constable: What the parlor maid saw.**

* * *

"My dear Watson, you are forgetting an important statement!" Sherlock Holmes said, as he strode to the fireplace so as to reload his pipe and light it with a burning ember from the fireplace.

"What?" I tried to piece everything together in my mind. "What have I overlooked?"

My friend threw himself back down in his chair. "The parlour maid's statement, Watson. If you recollect, she saw the man of the house heading towards the orchard, from the window. He could not have been in that part of the grounds and also doing in his wife with his old revolver in the library, could he? There is no outside door in that room and the windows had not been opened.

"Besides, a man like he would not be agile nor quick enough and walking quietly in the direction of the orchard then doubling back, hoping that someone might have seen him going that way but not returning to the house would be rather a poor attempt for an alibi, do you not think?"

Of course he was right. "But, Holmes, just a minute... If he did not murder his wife, who did and why?"

My friend smiled. "Well, that is a solution quite easily found, Doctor. Who is it that provided so much evidence against him, hum? He surely must be lying!"

"His brother did this horrid thing!" I realised.

Holmes stood, setting down his pipe to shrug on his coat. "There is not a moment to lose! Come, Watson!"


	25. Only Clue

**From Wordwielder: Santa's hat**

* * *

I sometimes despise the festive season. The crowds irk me beyond measure, the out-of-tune carol singers almost drive me to commit murder (theirs) and the weather leaves much to be desired.

Worst of all are the attitudes of the police. They seem to believe that I am capable of performing Christmas miracles, just for them.

A departmental shop was broken into, with expensive furniture and jewellery stolen. The only clue is a red hat, trimmed with white fur. It is not owned by that shop but most likely belongs to one of the many people who take to the streets wearing such things and ringing a bell with one hand and carrying a bucket for coinage in the other.

In short, this hat could belong to any number of people. Well, any number of people with grey hair which appears to be falling out, anyway. Even I am going to find it difficult to locate the perpetrator from this!

Good luck to Bradstreet, I say.


	26. Writing Desk

**From W. Y. Traveller: Writing desk**

* * *

Watson does not appear to have noticed it, but that desk of his has seen better days. It is old and worn, with a wonky back leg which causes it to wobble horribly unless a piece of paper is jammed firmly beneath it. I intend to replace the thing with something befitting a man of letters.

The first item which I have considered is very fine - mahogany, inset with oak and finished with just enough brass. However, the writing surface might be just a little too small; I should measure Watson's existing desk in order to compare them. It does have fitted shelves, topped with a little cupboard (with modern, glass doors) - that would certainly make it as practical as it is compact. A point in its favour, perhaps.

The second is walnut - again, very fine, but also practical; it has a leather writing surface, which my dear friend might prefer. It is a little larger, but not too big for our sitting room. It is not quite as extravagant in design, but perhaps that would be more to the doctor's taste?

The third is of cherry. This would be my favourite, as the writing surface is lockable and it has concealed drawers and cupboards. Perhaps Watson would view this as excessive, but I rather like the elegance of the thing - the front has a flawless appearance, rather than being all knobs, keyholes, hinges and gaps. Personally, I would choose this one for its appearance alone, not counting the secret hideaways contained within it.

But... perhaps this is one gift which Watson should select himself - knowing my luck, he is well aware that his old desk has seen better days and chooses to keep it for some sentimental reason. He has grown dreadfully sentimental since losing his beloved Mary.

On the other hand, he might simply lack the funds to replace the hideous old thing. That it has seen better days is undeniable! I shall discuss the matter with Mrs. Hudson - she might be able to find out from the good doctor what his thoughts and feelings on the matter might be without alerting him. Yes... that might well be for the best.

What the deuce should I get instead, if he does not want a new writing desk?


	27. Christmas Shopping

**From BookRookie12: Holmes has one more gift.**

* * *

I detest Christmas shopping. Especially in weather such as this, with almost imperceptible ice everywhere and the street as full as ever.

Let me see... do I have everything? I shall just step inside this big departmental shop in order to check my list. There should be more room in there (and no ice to slip on).

Let me see... for Mycroft, I have purchased some very fine chocolates. For Watson (who did not want a new writing desk), a new silk cravat with gold tie pin and also a booking for just the right place in which to wear it . The good doctor does deserve to be spoilt, at this time of the year. For those Yarders I have grown (somewhat) fond of, a bottle of something warming apiece, for their flasks (goodness knows, they shall need it, this weather!)...

Oh no! How could I forget Mrs. Hudson? I owe her a peace offering (or a hundred) and dare not forget her. But what would she like?

A new vase, to replace the one that I broke when I came home the other night, worn to the point of fever and clumsiness? She did say that she was only glad that I had not come to further harm, but I know that she was fond of it.

Or, perhaps, a new tea set would be appropriate, seeing as I have broken no less than three cups and two saucers?

Perhaps both? Both. I have the funds and... well... it would certainly show that I am truly sorry. The dear lady puts up with far more from me than anyone else would - it does not do to take such a good nature for granted.

A blue, fluted vase with a trim which gives the appearance of twisted silk should suit Mrs. Hudson's tastes. The tea set is somewhat harder to select, however. I am not keen on pictures of... bunnies and such. I have never seen such things in the house, which (I hope) would mean that neither is she.

Ah! Roses! I shall purchase the set that is white, with hand-painted roses upon it - yellow, for friendship, which I hope will tell her that her kindness does not go unnoticed.

And now, I need only to go home and await the delivery of those items too much for me to carry. My work here is done! Wahey! I do believe that I have rather earnt a hot mince pie and drop of something warming, when I get home.


	28. Catlock Holmes

**From Hades Lord of the Dead: Write something wherein a piece of Holmes's and a piece of Watson's identity is different. For example: different gender, different profession, different ethnicity, different background, different name - whatever you like! They do not have to have the same alteration, e.g. if you genderbend one of them you can rename the other, but you can have the same if you like.**

* * *

"Watson! Watson, let me in!"

I rose with a yawn and stretched my limbs and tail. I had been enjoying a siesta beside the fire and would have preferred not to be disturbed.

"Come along, Watson, or I shall drop it!"

I went to the window - one of my companion's favourite entrances - and pushed it open for him.

"Why can you not use the door?" I asked of him.

He shrugged. "That would be boring. You see what I have brought?"

Half in and half out of the window was the carcass of a large rat.

"Holmes!" I mewed in some concern, noticing that his long, grey tabby fur was concealing multiple cuts and scratches. "You are wounded. What the deuce have you been doing, these past three days?"

He hissed as I set to patching him up. No doubt, his injuries were sore.

"I bring the spoils of victory home to show you what I have been doing and still you ask! Really - see for yourself! I have been hunting for this rat - it ended in triumph, as you can see, though our battle ended with him running blindly in the path of a cart."

I laughed. "Well, at least you got him, I suppose."

He lashed his tail, green eyes flashing. "I should have liked to have killed him with my own claws. I feel cheated!"

"Yes, well, I have finished with your injuries, now," said I. "Why do you not take to your chair, while I catch supper? What would you like? Pigeon?"

He licked his lips. "Pigeon would do very nicely. You are a good cat, Watson."

* * *

 **I have been asked to write about my Maine Coon pair as if they truly were Holmes and Watson, on occasion... the boys rather liked the idea.**

 **We hope that you have enjoyed this.**


	29. Friends of Christmases Past

**From Book girl fan: Drink a cup to friends long gone.**

 **They do not get much more "long gone" than this.**

* * *

The robots are back, still singing We Wish You a Merry bloody Christmas. What is there to be merry about?

Watson - that is, the robot who believes himself to be Doctor Watson - has gone out, most likely to purchase Christmas presents. I know that I too should make an effort, but I can only watch the street and think of past Christmases, spent with absent friends.

Baker Street used to be decked from floor to ceiling with evergreen boughs and sprigs, at least one Christmas tree, candles... I used to complain about it, but I miss it now - the absence of greenery appears to make the absence of my Watson all the more noticeable.

It is not just my Watson that I miss. There is Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Lestrade and his family (my new friend's ancestors, of course), Hopkins, Gregson... I can barely recall faces to mind, but names come thick and fast - as I remember one, so another springs instantly to mind in its wake. More than I can count - more than likely, more than I ever counted as friends, when they were among the living.

My robot is returning, carrying rather more bags and boxes than a man could manage without injury. His movements are quick; he looks happy. This being his first Christmas, he is probably excited. I wish that I could say that I feel the same way.

When Watson enters the sitting room, I hear him tut quietly.

"Are you going to stay there all the day long, Holmes?"

I might. Does it matter?

He huffs a sigh and goes to the decanters behind me, while I watch his reflection without turning my head. He pours me a drink and comes to my side.

"To absent friends?"

I take the offered glass with a nod. "To absent friends."

He watches me drink the whisky in a single gulp without a word of reproach, instead taking back the glass and laying a hand upon my shoulder.

"I miss them too, old boy."


	30. Shelter

**From zanganito: Buckfast Abbey**

* * *

"Keep going, old fellow," Holmes coaxed me, taking my arm. "I believe I can see a light in the near distance - an inn, if we are lucky. The food is unlikely to be appetising, but it will at least be warming. Just think of it - hot food, a warming drink and then bed. It is better than trying to find shelter out here on this wretched moor."

I nodded in agreement and attempted to quicken my pace, but we were both trudging in near frozen, drenched shoes from the many springs and streams and I was shivering with vigour. Holmes was faring no better and I wondered how he could find the energy to go on.

"Not much farther," he kept telling me, as we marched ever onward.

As night fell and the stars came out, bringing with them the promise of a hard frost, I too saw the lights which we were heading towards, steadily drawing nearer.

The cold was causing me to feel weary and sick and I told Holmes as much.

"I know; I am also feeling the effects of exposure," he replied. "We must press on, Watson. If we stop to rest now, we may not see daybreak. Keep going; we are closer than you think. Keep talking to me - it will help us both to remain wakeful."

I did as instructed, recalling that Holmes had learnt a great deal about exposure during his travels.

We were still a way off when I heard a gate being opened and hurried footsteps approaching us from behind the swaying lights of candle lamps. Apparently, our voices had carried ahead of us in the still night.

"Do you seek shelter?" a voice called to us.

We both hastily confirmed that we did and two men in rather strange clothing, as far as i could make out, were soon alongside us. Holmes informed them that we both were weary and sick with exposure and what happened next became somewhat of a blur. I recall being given a restorative drink and asked a number of questions by one of the men, while his companion went back for help. What seemed like a moment later, I was on the back of a pony, with a heavy blanket about my shoulders. On my left was Holmes, also huddled beneath a blanket and astride a second pony.

As we passed through the heavy gates which we had heard moments before our rescue, the light in the courtyard engulfed us and I was able to finally see the men who had come out to us clearly. Their clothing, which had seemed so foreign and strange, I now perceived to be habits. The lights which had drawn us across Dartmoor were those of an abbey, not an inn.

We were taken inside and well tended, with hot food and drink, warming baths, a change of clothing apiece and, at last, a bed for the night in a small twin room.

"Watson?" Holmes' voice whispered in the darkness. "Are you well?"

I was and said so. ""And yourself?"

He yawned. "I believe I am. We were very lucky to find this abbey, but we must press on in the morning. I asked earlier if another had come here before us..."

"Yes and we were assured that we are the first visitors here in a month," said I. "You realise, Holmes, that we are likely to find a corpse, if our fugitive is not as fortunate as we have been this night? We ourselves could have perished upon the moor."

I heard his bed shake slightly and realised that he had given an involuntary shiver. "I am aware. But we must find him, never-the-less."

"Yes, of course. Well... good night, old fellow."

He yawned again before answering and I smiled to myself. How grateful I was that we had stumbled upon Buckfast Abbey.


	31. New Year's Eve

**From cjnwriter: Holmes and Watson celebrate the new year**

* * *

I awoke in our shelter, amongst the dry heather, to the sound of a high wind in the nearby trees. The moor was still shrouded in darkness, but there was just the hint of light on the snow to tell me that the sky was paling to the East.

Beside me, my companion gave a groan.

""Are you awake, Watson? Good morning. How are you faring?"

I was dreadfully hungry and rather chilled. My nose and throat burned from breathing the frigid air and my shoulder was throbbing painfully.

"I am all right, Holmes," was all that I said, for what point was there in complaining? What could my companion do to alleviate even one of my complaints? Besides, I suspected that he would feel the chill even more than I was, being so terribly skinny.

"We shall have to try to find an inn," my friend said with a sniffle. "We are not going to last long without nourishment in these conditions."

I started to agree, but interrupted myself with a sudden and violent sneeze.

"I am cold, Holmes," said I, in response to his concerned expression and searching gaze.

He nodded. "Yes, I believe that it is even colder today than it was yesterday. Will you be all right, if we press on?"

"Do we have any alternative?" I retorted.

He grimaced. "I suppose not. Come along, then, out we go. Oh! What I would not give to be able to freshen up in a warm hotel room, with hot water..."

I tried not to think about it, just as I tried not to think about breakfast.

"By Jove, the snow is deucedly dazzling," Holmes complained, narrowing his eyes against the glare and cupping his hands to his face so as to screen them. "God help us if the sun comes out. Well, well, perhaps we should try to find a good vantage point. Can you climb this hill, do you think?"

"We should each take a staff, to aid us," said I, returning to our shelter of the previous night in order to select two of the longest branches from the roof and remove the twigs.

Holmes came to my side and assisted me. ""Bravo, Watson. That was very good thinking."

I beamed at the high praise. "I think I am ready to begin the climb now, old man."

He linked his arm through mine and we began our climb together, testing each and every step before taking it with our staffs, so as to avoid any hidden holes or patches of ice. It was slow going and the crest of the hill seemed to grow farther away, rather than closer.

At last, the top was made and we stood, panting and gasping with excretion while our breaths formed puffs of cloud that were carried away on the high, arctic wind. We soon realised that we were now standing at the side of a road which ran from North to South, but which way we should go was impossible to determine.

"There appears to be a house down there," my companion said, pointing to a distant structure far below us, nestled in the valley amongst some trees. "But I fear that we may have to cross the river, in order to reach it."

I rubbed at my arms with a vigorous shiver, for we were even more exposed now.

"I should never have let you accompany me," I heard him say, so quietly that I suspected that I was not meant to hear.

"Well, I insisted. Besides, I am glad that I came - at least we have been able to help one another to keep warm."

He chuckled quietly. "There is that. Thank you for insisting, my dear friend."

I drew closer to him, about to reply, when he stiffened and began to turn his head this way and that.

"Watson, am I imagining things? Can you smell anything?"

My nose was rather too cold and unpleasant to allow me to smell anything, but I tried never-the-less.

"I can smell nothing," I confessed at length, wiping at my nose with a cold, damp handkerchief.

"No... and little wonder. You sound quite congested, my dear fellow. Well, I can smell a wood fire and... and kippers, I believe. It must be to the North and East of us. Hopefully, not too far away. Come along, Watson."

We set off again, following the road as it snaked its way through the moor, with the trough from which we had climbed on our left and the North-Easterly gale ever trying to toss us back into it.

By the time we caught sight of the country inn, it was approaching lunch time. It was well into the afternoon when we finally reached it.

We gratefully shrugged off our wet coats (the wind had been catching up snow from the hills, bushes and trees and tossing it upon us without mercy) and found a table. Due to the weather, the inn was not as busy as it could have been.

Holmes enquired at the bar about booking a room for the night and ordered us each a pint of beer and pheasant breast apiece for lunch.

"This is a better place to see in the New Year than our 'four star' accommodation of last night," my companion remarked cheerfully, as he removed his gloves. "I think I might celebrate it from the comfort of a nice, warm bed, however. What do you think, Watson?"

I had rather lost track of the date during our misadventures on the moor. "Is it really New Year's Eve?"

My companion nodded. "There is to be live music, tonight, so the landlord tells me. But I am rather weary..."

"Oh, Holmes!" I laughed. "A hot meal, a bath... a short siesta... I am sure we shall both feel much improved, by dinner time."

He nodded pensively. "We should not forget why we are here."

"No indeed," said I. "We shall hire two ponies and set out again when we are fresh. We cannot track anyone in this wind - all traces are all too quickly covered and erased."

He hummed in agreement and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hope that he has not gotten too far. He knows this area and we do not."

I shrugged my good shoulder. "The local police are also searching for him - they too have an advantage and there are more of them. He will be found. For now, we should allow ourselves some recuperation."

"This is why I need you, Watson - you are the voice of common sense. Despite my earlier comment, I am truly glad that you are with me. We shall eat and sleep now and then join in tonight's festivities, as you have just suggested. As you rightly say, it will refresh us."

When the barmaid brought our meal to the table, she informed us that, had we gone the other way, we would have reached the nearby market town, Pickering. Holmes turned to me with a bright grin.

"Well, Watson, our man most assuredly did not go South - such a busy place would be a danger for him. No, he will have gone North - we are on the right track."

The night proved to be a jolly one, though Holmes and I soon retreated to bed after seeing in the New Year together - we did have a criminal to catch up with the next day, after all, and could not afford too much of a lie-in.

* * *

 **As you can see, we did not forget that Holmes and Watson had been left out on the North Yorkshire Moors. They should be all right, now.**

 **Happy New Year to one and all! We hope that you have enjoyed our Fireside Tales as much as we have enjoyed penning them.**

 **Alex, Paul and David.**


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